the way fingers lie
by HeartOfCoal
Summary: 'There was something silent about him, but it wasn't his lack of words. Instead the quiet nestled itself in between his fingers as he tapped on his knee, or how he worked his jaw while he gazed as the passing city.' there will be feels and johnlock in the end. yay me. i don't know about this. reviews would be nice. (this is kind of dark, will be a sad read.)
1. Chapter 1

**a/u: i'm really unsure about this? but i always imagined him really scattered after a nightmare. i'm going to continue this, i think. reviews would be blessed, thank you.**

There's something so beautiful about the naked body– that is, until its lying face down in a pool if its own blood.

Even after all the mess and destruction, I couldn't help but cringe when Sherlock and I arrived at the scene. It was grotesque.

"She was beaten to death, by the look of it, but we still don't know why she's naked o –"

"She was taking a bath when it happened," Sherlock offered, kneeling down by the woman.

She was beautiful, even in death, and I wasn't the only one who saw it. Lestrade had a deep, almost longing look in his eyes. Saddened by the waste of a beautiful face. She was slim (you could see the outline of her hipbones, even as she lay on her stomach) with dark red waves. Natural. One of her hands was lying on the floor, upturned so that her palm was facing us. She looked like she could have played piano. Long, graceful fingers, but messy nails. Short.

"The husband isn't home. It's very possible that an intruder c–"

"Where are the children?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, with the ambulance," Lestrade said, motioning outside. "But they were down for a nap."

Sherlock stood, suddenly, and brushed himself off. I watched him link his hands behind his back, but something in the way his fingers met was odd; they shook, just a little. Just enough so that he had to grip them with his own.

"Have you contacted the husband?"

"We've been trying."

"Try harder. He's the one who did it."

"Well, we're going to send in for DNA testing, but there's no way to be sure t–"

"I am sure. He was the one."

"Why?"

I watched them talk, silent spare for a sigh– their mouths were like guns, firing bullets at each other.

"Why would someone kill the mother and not the children? There was a possibility that they could have seen them kill her. No, he didn't kill the children because he couldn't."

"What?" Lestrade shot me a look. I shrugged.

"Have the paramedics check the children for bruises. Anything that's a red flag for child abuse."

"Why would you think they were abused? That's absurd. The father is a working man, a nice one, hell, I've had dinner wi–"

"Who else would kill his wife over something like rape and then not kill the children?"

"You're out of your mind, Sherlock."

With a huff, Sherlock turned on his heel and I followed, assuming that he was heading home. The sky was growing dark– he must not be hungry, but I was. When we were out of the house, (perfect white home with a fence; hallmark.) the detective made a beeline towards the ambulance.

"What are you doing?" I hissed, grabbing his cuff.

"What everyone else is obviously too stupid to do," Sherlock said, ripping his hand away from my grasp.

I winced as he approached, because I _knew_ how he was with people, and I was suddenly afraid that he would damage these children. There were two of them, the eldest a skinny, blonde haired boy, and the younger a little round faced girl. She couldn't have been more than two years old. The girl was crying, still, but the boy was something to really look at– he was stone, at age six, with one arm around his shaking sibling and his eyes trained on Sherlock as he stopped in front of them.

He kneeled down. I dreaded what he would say, what sly remark would escape his lips; already was trying to explain to Lestrade what happened, already apologizing. The softness of his voice shocked me.

"I know this is a stupid question," he began, looking up at them, "but are you alright?"

The boy was the one who answered. "There's no such thing as a stupid question."

Sherlock reached up and brushed his hair from his face– such a gentle motion, and something I had never seen him do. But once the hair was up enough, I understood. Bruises. Retreating, yes, but blooming across his forehead, darker in a few spots that were just the size of fingertips. The boy shook, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. Tired eyes.

"Where else?" Sherlock whispered.

Lestrade joined by my side and cursed quietly. The boy lifted up his shirt, exposing more bruises, more fingertip paintings up his ribcage, and Sherlock nodded.

"Her, too?"

He nodded.

"Okay."

Nobody moved. Sherlock stayed where he was, his hand dropping until it rested on the child's. Comfort. I didn't think that Sherlock even knew what that was.

"What's going to happen to me?"

Sherlock's back stiffened, as if the question shook him. After a moment of staring at the ground, (I could almost see the gears turning in that manic head) he looked up again. Didn't smile. His words were almost too soft to hear.

"You're going to have a lot of people tell you that it wasn't your fault," he murmured, "and you're not going to believe them. And everyone will tell you that you'll move on, even though you won't. And it will hurt, and hurt a lot. You won't forget it, because how can you? Everything that happened you to and your sister already happened, and I know that its bad and terrible, and I know that it really hurts. That it hurts a lot. But you're going to sit down at think to yourself 'what's the point of being hurt if you just sit there and hurt?'. You're going to be strong, because you always have been, haven't you?"

"I can't hear him," Lestrade said to me. I shushed him.

"Is it my fault?" he asked.

I didn't realize that he was crying until Sherlock wiped away a stray tear. "No. None of it."

The doctors took over, then, and Sherlock made his way back to us.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What was what?" Irritable, again. Back to old Sherlock.

"Doesn't matter. You were right, I guess," Lestrade said.

"I know." Sherlock turned and didn't bother to look back to see if I was following.

We slid into a cab. I was grateful for the sudden warmth; my jumper and coat only protect me so much. Beside me, Sherlock was mute– as he usually was after a solved case. I let myself study him, as I sometimes did.

There was something silent about him, but it wasn't his lack of words. Instead the quiet nestled itself in between his fingers as he tapped on his knee, or how he worked his jaw while he gazed as the passing city.

"Will you stop staring at me?" he whispered sharply.

"Sorry. Do you want to get Chinese food?"

"I'm not hungry."

"What a shock." He didn't reply, just kept tapping on his leg. "Would you eat something if I asked nicely?" I asked, a bit sharp.

Sherlock stopped the tapping. Turned to me. I saw him think briefly, his gaze fluttering over my face before he smiled thinly.

"As you wish," he said sarcastically, but gave the cabbie the fastest route to the Chinese take out place reserved for 'after cases'.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– –––

"You're not eating," I noted, pointed a fork at his untouched plate.

"I said that I wasn't hungry. Have you thought about taking the case with me about the missing body p–"

"Not at dinner, Sherlock," I said, but I laughed anyway.

Earned a small smile. He twirled his noodles around on his fork, but didn't eat. His fingers shook a little. After all this time, I still didn't understand why the man just _didn't eat._ It was as if it was a war; and I knew war.

He toyed with the cuff of his shirt. Shivered, a little. I didn't blame him, because it was chilly in here and I wondered how he wasn't shivering all the time because he was so thin. He licked his lips; bit the bottom on. I watched him gaze at the table, but he was absent.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock met my gaze and scowled. "Yes, of course."

"You're still not eating."

"I'm still not hungry."

I rolled my eyes. "You're even more childish than usual," I muttered, but the insult was half hearted.

Sherlock looked oddly pale under the lights; translucent. When he ate a few mouthfuls, I was satisfied, and we left, because that was simple. And that was good.

I tried to ignore how small Sherlock seemed to look when he curled into a ball on the couch.

"Are you going to sleep there?" I asked, slipping out of my shoes.

"Maybe."

There was a pregnant pause, in which I imagined walking over to the couch and demanding that Sherlock get up and be a normal human being for once.

"Goodnight, then," I said. Too late to deal with this.

Sherlock didn't answer, and I didn't look back at him as I trailed up the stairs to my room.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– –––––

_I remember dying, and then realizing that it was a dream, and them wishing all at once that I really was dead and that my life was a dream. Some sort of sick joke. _

_ My mind is like an intersection of highways, but the cars never stop. No stop lights, no stop sighs and once in a while they just crash. It's okay for them to crash. I know it is. But when they crash and I have to remember, the hardest part is knowing that I actually have to remember. There is no way out. _

_ When I saw the boy with fingerprint bruises on his ribs, there was a car crash– I could almost have controlled it. __**Almost**__. I hate almost– such a finicky word. _

_ His bruises sent back a thousand pictures, cracking my hard drive and suddenly I am five years old again with my bed soaking wet and my pajamas dirty and my face wet with tears. There is a hand on my back, comforting, and my brother collects me in his arms and lets me cry. _

not your fault, sherock. it's okay.

_I never believed him. My father told me that I was too old to wet the bed, after that, and made me sit in the cellar until I dried off. It took a long time, I know, and I was cold but dry by the time dawn rolled around. _

_ When it happened again and it was my father that found me, wondering the halls for my brothers room, he took me by the ear and yanked me towards the cellar. I cried. He slapped me. For a moment the highways in my brain failed to connect '_father'_ with _'pain'_. When they did, I was already in the cellar and I was cold and wet and, god, I was sobbing because I didn't understand what had happened. _

_ The months around that age are a blur of 'he hit his head on the table' and 'he fell down, don't know what happened to his eye' and I was very well aware that everyone knew what was happening and nobody cared. That's the big thing. You can look and __**see**__ all you want, but to care and to do something was something that nobody had in them. _

_ I don't remember what I did to make my father so angry that he had me up against the wall, hand against my face again and against until there was blood running down my face. My head pounded. It had been moths since I cried, but I cried, then, because nobody was home and __**ohmygosh he is going to kill me**_**. **_ His hands circled my throat. _

_ I wondered if God was real. _

_ Vision slipped. The first sign of lack of oxygen. I hurt. Pain had stopped being a feeling, rather a color, and the color dripped all over my body. I shook, I knew, and my father's face was beet red and so so __**so angry. **_

I scrambled to my feet. The walls unraveled and came back together, their presence almost pushing me back down to the couch before I lost my 'could have been dinner' into the toilet. My limbs shook and my throat burned. I could feel my knees begin to bruise. Must have hit the ground hard.

For a moment I leaned against the tile, unsure if I could stand. The walls were cool against my damp forehead. Grounding; foundation.

**_I am here and this is now and that is not here anymore. I am not there. I am not there. I am here. He is gone. I am here. I am here. I amhereiamhereiamhereiamhere. _**


	2. Chapter 2

I stayed where I was, with my cheek pressed against the chilling wall, until I heard John begin to move around upstairs. The motions fill me as I push myself up. Trousers first, then jumper. Then socks. I've memorized them by now– they're second nature, even though they're nothing more than a sound.

The steps groaned a little (the third the most) and I was in my own bed by the time he made it downstairs. He called my name. I didn't respond, just pulled my knees to my chest and buried my face in them.

_It's easiest just to forget._

John pushed the door to my room open and I hear him stand there (I can see it without looking, all un-brushed hair and fuzzy jumpers) and I feel oddly sad. It's like an empty pit in my stomach. He kneels next to the bed and tries to look at me, but I keep my eyes sealed. Make him believe that I'm sleeping even though I never want to sleep against after I dream of _that._

"You're not asleep," John mutters. I feel his breath of my forehead, and realize that I must have been sweating because I almost shiver. **_Almost._**

****"Are you sick?"

"Just tired." I take pride in how controlled my voice is.

"You look sick."

"Well you look like you were up all night with night terrors, no doubt about the war, and probably how you couldn't save anyone and how violent and bloody it was and you also look like you're afraid that your limp will sometimes come back because your dreams are bad enough to open you back up like a damn jar," I said, opening my eyes and looking at John.

I didn't realize that his hand was on my forehead until it was gone, and then he was gone, too, and I was alone.

No almost.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– –

I do not miss the war– no, I only miss the sense of _doing something productive._ Don't get me wrong. I love being a doctor, but treating things like a sore throat can only being so much joy into someone's life. Only so much adventure. Of course, I could go back to school to become a surgeon, (an actual one, but one to remove bullets with almost nothing), but something stopped me. Too much commitment.

The one thing in life that doesn't bore me is Sherlock; but most of the time, he's just too much to handle. Too much adventure. I figure he's just in one of his dark moods. One of those weeks where he won't answer the phone and sleep on and off for about four days; he won't talk. Won't even play that damn violin.

In the back of my mind, there was a little nagging sensation that told me not to look but to see– but I was tired, and that voice was usually wrong, anyway. So I went back to work and pushed the dark haired mess of a man from my thoughts.

When I get home, Sherlock isn't in bed, but curled up on the couch. He's in day clothes, and I smell the streets on him as I pass him and lower myself into the (my) chair. I don't talk to him, and he doesn't talk to me. The silence curls around us both, wrapping us it its chilly embrace and I swear that I see the thin one shiver, wrap his arms tighter around himself. I fluff out the paper. Sherlock cringes at the noise.

"Have you eaten today?" I ask after a while, when I start to get hungry.

He doesn't answer. I watch his breathing, study the slow, mechanical movement of his ribcage, and wonder if he really is asleep. His hair is falling into his face; in slumber, he looks young, with his lips parted just so. He looks soft. When I get up to go to the kitchen, he stirs, as if he feels me leave the room. As if he would care.

I knock around in the kitchen as quietly as I can. So quiet, in fact, that I can hear every breath my friend takes. I'm just taking the soup off the stove when I hear his voice, deep rumbles of hardly-there syllables that seem to wind their way into my head. He's not talking to me– his sentences aren't aimed at anyone here, I determine. I walk back towards the living room but pause in the doorway, watching him turn his head to the side. His arm falls off the side of the couch.

"I apologized."

"Sherlock?"

"-sorry! I'm sorry!"

His voice was thin and his fists clenched. I watched the little dents between his eyebrows deepen, a thick 'v' forming. A thin line of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"…happen again, I swear. Promise," he whimpers, and the groans.

I kneel down by his shaking form. "Wake up, Sherlock," I mutter.

"I promise! Swear!"

He's screaming, now, and I wind my hands around his thin wrists. Sherlock wakes with a start, eyes snapping open before he swings his body off the couch. I stand, too, and for a moment Sherlock looks like he's going to either pass out or throw up, but then he steadies himself and look around, sighing. Bites his lip.

I wonder if he noticed that I'm there.

When he tries to talk, his words get hitched on his tongue; I'm left staring at him, watching his eyes dart away from my face. He can't even look at me.

It hits me that he's embarrassed.

"Hey," I say gently. "Do you want some soup?"

Sherlock looks at me like I just solved global worming or something, with those icy blue eyes wide and he's searching my face for something, but I don't know what.

"Okay," he finally says, like it's the hardest thing in the world.

I wonder if it is.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

I wonder if it's scientific, the way that the sound of John's typing calms me. Maybe something in my brain, two highways connecting _John_ and _typing_ with _safe _and **_here. _**I try to eat the soup. Really, really try– but my mind is still going a thousand miles an hour, like it has been for the past few days and it won't stop.

Traffic jam. Everything is stuck and everyone is honking, a symphony of _move along_ and _we've been here for ages _that's slipping inside my anatomy. I lie in bed and trace the track marks, along other things, etched on my forearm. It occurs in some highway that I could relapse, now, and 'accidentally' overdose, and then the traffic jam would be gone, because there would be no more roads.

But if I eliminate the highways that are jammed, I also delete the highways that are concentrating on John's tying (and his jumpers, and how he looks in the morning, and how his breath feels when he gets a bit too close). I don't know if I want those to go.

John stops typing. It's late, I know, and I suppose that he has surgery in the morning. The steps creak, they always do, but John seems slower tonight, as if he can sense my buried _come here_'s in the whisper of my fingers as they dip in and out of the scars on my arm. I wonder if he could fill the dents in my skin. He probably could, because he's a doctor, and doctors stop people from hurting, don't they?

But John can't know about my scars or about my dreams, because that is a 'very not good thing', and John does not like 'not good things'.

And John cannot know that I've never wanted anyone to wake me up when I was having a nightmare before, because usually they were no better than the dream itself– but when John woke me it was like heaven, because he is a good thing.

A very good thing.

Lestrade calls in the wee hours of the morning– I wait for my phone to ring a few times, so maybe he'll think that I was sleeping. Think that I was acting human.

"I hope I didn't wake you."

"What do you need?"

"That kid, the one from the last case? Well he won't talk to anyone. The evidence of abuse is there," Lestrade says, and I feel my heart pick up, "but he just _won't talk._"

"And?" My voice is deep– locked.

"_And_ I was hoping that you could get him to talk."

I sat down on the bed. Worked my jaw. "Why would I be able to do that?"

There was a deep pause, as if Lestrade was running around inside his head looking for the right words. I could see him mulling it over. Licking his lips– nervous. I can sense him through the phone.

"You knew what was happening, Sherlock, before anyone else. You were the first one there he talked to about it… maybe the first person he ever talked to about it."

"I don't know him."

"Yes you do." Lestrade let out a thick sigh. "You don't know his name, which, by the way, is Jake, but you knew he was in pain. You helped."

"I just saw, Lestrade. Don't make this bigger than it is."

"Will you just come?"

I stared out my window; across the street, a baby's shrill cry waltzed through my open window. I wondered if the mother was the one up with it, walking in circles with a small bounce in her step, voice soft with promises of sweet dreams. My traffic jam honked. Yelling. The noise pounded on my skull, pulse rushing inside my ears; I could hardly hear myself respond.

I tried to say no.

But what's the point of being hurt if you just sit there and do nothing but _hurt?_

"I'll be there in a hour. Text me the location."

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– –––––

I wake to Sherlock's movements below me; but his motion isn't what woke me. The gritting sand in my hair and the sharp fibers in my lungs from too dry air, and the screams, and my aching shoulder– that's what woke me.

By the time I get downstairs, the dark haired man is just tying his shoes. He doesn't hear me come down (deep in thought, that 'v' reappeared on his brow) so I take a moment to look at him through the early morning light. His motions are trained, slow, because his eyes are distant and probably walking with one hand pressed against the wall of his mind palace; Sherlock bites his lip. Not just bites, but chews, softly, as if the feel of it will help ground him. The way the shadows lie on his face, it looks like someone had stroked it with paint, leaving dark lines on the pale skin.

He looks beautiful. Always does at this time; as if he's part of the sunrise, and half of him is stretched out across the world, fingers lying on the horizon as he pulls up the sun.

"Where are you off to?"

Sherlock looks up, startled, when I talk. His eyes widen when he takes me in; but its brief, and hardly anything to note (except I do, because I always do).

"Hospital."

"Why?"

"Lestrade needs my help. He called."

"New case?" I start to pull on my coat.

He shakes his head. "No. Help with the old one."

"The one with the wife and the… kids," I say, awkward.

Sherlock nods. His lips move, but I don't really hear his voice. When he slides into a cab, and I follow, his shoulders relax a bit; as if he didn't really know that I was coming, and he's relieved. As if he would _be_ relieved.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/u: i start school in a few days, so the story updates may be a tad slow, but i do want this to go further. reviews are love, as always. happy reading, friends.**

John doesn't follow me into the room with Jake; which is good, because I don't know what I would be able to say with John in the room, giving me that wide eyed look all the time. He's nerve-racking, sometimes, but that's okay.

I know his name, but for some reason I can't bring myself to call him Jake. He doesn't look like a Jake.

He's reading, when I come in, but I can tell that he's not actually reading. We both know that he doesn't need to be in a hospital. Physically, he's not injured in any severe ways. Just bumps and bruises. You can't see the real damage.

"How the book?" I ask.

"Rubbish."

He doesn't look at me, but he closes the book, which I take as a small victory. I can tell that he's smart; little body but big mind.

"They said that you're not talking."

"I am."

"Just not about what happened at home, then."

Jake doesn't talk. He picks at the IV in his hand. His chart says that he was in shock; he doesn't show it.

"Is my dad going to jail?"

"Yes." I don't need to consult a police officer or a judge to know that he'll get a good number of years.

"Okay."

We sit in more silence; Jake stops toying with his IV but still won't meet my eyes, so I briefly study him, try to gauge him. There are dark circles under his eyes, but they're not from violence. No; lack of sleep. Probably nightmares.

"They won't let me see my sister."

"Why's that?" Even though I know why.

"They say that she's hurt, but I know that there's another reason. I think… I think they're going to put us in foster care. Or whatever it is."

"Foster care is correct, unless they find kin."

"We don't have any."

I don't respond, but he starts picking at his IV again and I reach over to take his hand before he breaks skin. He doesn't flinch.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The words feel artificial in my mouth.

Jake shakes his head. "I can't."

"I know," I say, and I mean it, because I do know.

"It hurts."

"It'll heal."

"Does it go away? The hurt?" His words sound numb, like the question doesn't sit well with him.

"Someday." My grip on his hand tightens. "But you have to be patient."

"Real patient?"

"Real patient."

"Okay." He lays back, keeping his small fingers clamped around my own. Curls up on his side.

That moment, he really does look like a child.

"Do you think you could talk about it? To someone? It'll help."

"Will it really?"

"Yes," I say, even though I don't really know.

"I'll try."

"That's a good lad."

I wait until he falls asleep before I untangle my fingers from his own and slip softly out the door.

There's a hollow feeling in the base of my skull, and the traffic jam is still there, too; and John is staring at me when I approach him, and in his ocean eyes I see questions, which we both know I'll never answer.

Jake starts to talk about it after we met; little, fragmented sentences at first and then his words spilled like water from a broken glass. He didn't cry, Lestrade told me. I'm not sure if I feel anything at all, but if I wasn't so numb, I wonder what I would feel.

I don't sleep for the next 57 hours; I keep track. Part of me itches it record the minutes in my skin, little lines just below my underwear line, kissing my hipbone, because that's the spot that nobody ever saw. But I don't. I keep track in my highway head, because keeping track in my skin would be a very not good thing.

John's nightmares aren't so bad anymore. Before, I could hear him toss and turn and scream, but now he's calm for the most part. A lot of those 57 hours of wakefulness are spent observing him, quietly, either watching him cook or read or type. His typing is nice; consistent.

His voice is soft and low. "You look tired."

I'm on the couch, and he's in his chair; my fingers point at my chin. "So do you."

"You're worse."

I don't respond, because it's too late and I don't feel like starting an argument tonight. Instead I listen to him type and breathe. He's bedrock, and I can steady myself against the sound of his fingers. I know I'll be okay in a few weeks. I know that I just need time to push it all back into my head; into some bad road, locked in a trunk, and let it collect dust and rust.

"Lestrade wanted me to pass along his thanks."

"For?"

"Jake."

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, until I taste blood and silently hate John for bringing it up. The car with my memories turns around and comes back; rejoins my traffic jam. I don't talk, because I won't know if I can, steadily. John's stopped typing, so I concentrate on the _hum_ of the lamp beside my head. I count it in measures.

_1e+a 2e+a 3e+a4. _

"You alright?"

"Fine, John. Stop asking," I say, my voice hot.

John sighs; his voice leave his lips deeply, like waves rolling off of rocks, and I feel them in my bones.

"You could jut admit that you're tired and go to sleep."

"You could just tell your girlfriend that you want to shag her and leave."

His laugh isn't humorous. It stings. "Fine, Sherlock. Just fine. I'll leave you to whatever the hell you're doing, then."

He leaves, and I am alone, again.

Again, there is no almost.

The traffic jam gets even worse when he leaves, and my head pounds, so I slouch to my room and curl up on top of my sheets. They smell like fear.

After 57 hours I fall asleep. I wish I hadn't, because I dream of _it_ again and I can't claw myself out of it; never had been able to.

_I was late, I knew I was late, and I knew that he was going to be mad. It had begun to rain on my way home; my bike chain had slipped off of its train. _

_ It was almost Christmas. I don't remember the year, but I am 9 years old. My brother is away at school. My mom is drowning in her own drinking habit. _

_ And my dad? He's waiting for me at the front steps. His face is dark, drown hair messy and I smell the booze on him, too, when he stumbles over to me. _

_ The butler sees us and orders everyone into their quarters. If they don't see it, they can't report it; and if they don't report it, they won't lose their jobs. Understandable. I try not to be bitter. I really, really try. _

_ I try not to be angry when my father grabs me by the scruff of my neck. Or hurt, when he takes me to his study. _

_ Or scared when he undoes his belt. I've never spoken to my father during these episodes, but something in me changed when the belt collided with my spine. Something snapped. (and it wasn't my skin, not yet.)_

_ I screamed. No at scared scream, but defiant, and I tried to push him away. Drops of blood matted into my school shirt from where I had been struck. _

_ Of course, I was 9 and he was 6 times that, and he took a handful of my hair and forced me to my knees. My face against the bookshelf. I smelled the books and the blood and the whips came, again, again, __**againagainagainagain **__until finally they didn't. _

_ He stopped and caught his breath. _

_ "Go clean yourself up."_

_ I stumbled to the bathroom and locked the door. Blood ran down my back; I imagined myself drowning in it. Gasping and choking and spluttering in my own self. _

_ Hard as I try, I am angry. I am angry at my father and my mother and brother; I am angry at myself and I am angry with everyone for knowing and not doing anything. When I hit my wall and feel my knuckles bend and crack, white hot pain flares through me, filling me up unit I'm a raging sea of 'what ifs' and 'should have beens' and I am angry all over again–_

_ –and then I am nothing. _

_ I look down at my hand and feel words like kisses, __**control **__ and _**_mine_**_ filling in the fresh cuts in my back. _

_ I rummage through the cabinet until I find my father's old razor, and I place it on my arm and drag it horizontally._

_ The blood that runs down me is caused by me, and after the pain fades I'm left with an endorphin-rush and a cloud of clarity. I am in control. This is my own. _

**–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– –––––––––**

I hear Sherlock wake; his scream dies in his throat but I'm already half down the stairs, bare feet scrambling to his room. It's pitch black. He's sitting up, knee's drawn to his chest with his head balanced on them; I pause in the doorway and watch him, unsure if he knows that I'm here.

His shoulders shake. I take the room in two long strides and ease myself onto the bed in front of him, hearing him try to choke back what sound like sobs. He's clad in pajama bottoms and a short sleeve V-neck, but in the pale moonlight he looks so naked that it's almost scary.

"Hey, it's okay," I say, but I don't really know if it is okay.

Sherlock buried his face deeper into his knees and his shaking worsens. He's gasping more than breathing.

"Sherlock, it's okay," I mutter, but he shakes his head.

I reach out and my fingers curl around his shoulder, trying to ease the trembling.

"I can't breathe." His voice is rough and grated.

"You just need to calm down."

"I can't."

I scoot a little closer. "Yes you can. You're Sherlock bloodly Holmes," I say, joking.

"John!"  
His hands find my wrists and I meet his eyes in the darkness, and for once there isn't a curtain and I am taken aback by all the hurt that plays around his pupils. It was like looking into the sea after a storm. He's weighted with a thousand words that I'm wondering if he'll ever say, waves crashing down on him as he stares at me and suddenly I'm the one who's trying to **_see._**

I don't know why, but I find myself folding him into my arms. For a moment he's stiff, but then his hand come to rest on my lower back and his fingers bunch up with my shirt in his fists. His grip is tight, desperate, and I feel him try to concentrate on his breathing while I rub small circles in his back. He's shaking, still, and I carefully shift so that we're lying down. I expect him to loosen his grip, but he shuffles over and pressed his head into my collarbone. His leg folds itself in-between my own, making a weaving of limbs.

There's a soft _swish _of fabric on our skin; Sherlock's breath drips down my chest, and gradually he stops trembling. I don't draw back my embrace, and he doesn't make any move indicating that he wants me to. The room is full of '_stay_'s, found buried in the sound that my breath makes as it cascades down into his dark waves.

I am strangely content– happy with the way his hands feel, curled against my chest and the way his hair smells.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/u: i'll write more tomorrow. school is a bitch. probably going to write this entire fic in spanish class tbh.  
reviews are welcome. happy reading.**

When I wake, I'm acutely aware of a dull weight pressing against my abdomen. I feel it draped over my side, careless and lazy in the early morning sun as I lay with my eyes closed. I can't remember ever feeling so safe. Contentment forms in half-moons along my forehead, following the path of a deep breeze that moves the hair from my brow.

My first instinct, when my eyes open, is to tense– to recall all those late, higher than life nights that ended with me waking up, naked and blurry eyed in a stranger's bed the next morning (or afternoon). So when I take in John's sleeping form, my heart skips a beat because _I just don't remember._ I can recall shaking; as if I had become the earth during a quake, my bones shifting like the plates of the planet as I trembled. And I remember John. He is soft but stern, like the sea; pushing but gentle. Steady. **_There._**

He stirs when I slip from his hazed grip. Whispers something. I stand in the doorway for a moment, studying his sleeping form and wondering if maybe we all look that beautiful when we sleep, and we just don't know it. Part of me doesn't want to go; pretend that I hadn't woken up and curl back against his warm side, wr-

**_What the hell am I thinking._**

My highways are back; they were smooth for a few moments, streets getting caught in the serenity of John, but now the traffic is back and is full swing. I feel the horns in the back of my skull. Pulsing. I turn the shower on full blast and don't bother to wait for it to warm up. The water is freezing at first, and I'd be lying if I said that it didn't sting, but I stuck my face in it. Trying to drown my highways.

I watch the suds from my shampoo drip down my arm. It lingers for a moment in the scars, deep forever-ago-slashes, and for a second I imagine the merging with my skin in a foolish attempt to cover up the indents. But I know that's childish. (but I also know that part of me wishes that it could happen.)

It is not the noise John makes that lets me know he's awake; rather, the smell of tea. Tuesday- he'll be at surgery until 4. That leaves a whole day of boredom and silently wishing for a reason to relapse, just to quell the opaque _buzz_ of the parade of thoughts. If I do that, (that 'not good thing') then I know that it will be the end of me. And I'm not ready for an end just yet, so instead of not good things, I venture out of the bathroom with still-dripping hair.

John looks soft; all white light and sunrise-fingertips (_what the hell am I thinking) _and I can hardly look at him. So instead I look out the window.

"Did you sleep well?" Joking- he's uncomfortable.

I don't know how to respond, so instead I give a swift shake of my head and reach past him to get a mug.

"Do they happen often?"

"What?"

"Nightmares."

"No."

"You're lying."

"You're going to be late," I almost snap.

John doesn't get angry like I expect him to– there's something that I can't read in his eyes. He sighs instead.

"You know, I am your friend."

I almost (_**almost**_) reply with the dreaded 'I don't have _friends_' but I know that that is also a not good thing, so I don't. For the sake of John. He finishes his tea and puts it in the sink with a crisp _clink_, and then bends dow to tie his shoe. I watch his motions, practiced and careful, but we both know that he can do it with his eyes closed if he wanted; I like to watch his fingers.

"I want to talk when we get back."

"About what?"

He's almost to the door– that foolish part of me (the **what the hell are you doing** part) wants to ask him not to go. I don't understand.

"You know what," he says taking a step towards me (and my heart _**does not**_ skip a beat). "Sherlock, I'm a doctor, too. I can help."

John reaches out to put his hands on my arm but I pull away; heart racing and palms sweating because _**I do not need help.**_

"I'm just fine," I hiss.

My words feel like acid in my throat, and I can almost see the lie hit John. He mulls it over. Purses his lips. (My heart doesn't do that odd flip at that.)

"No," he says, finally, "of course you don't."

He looks at me like he almost wants to stay before he leaves, closing the door softly behind him, making me hate him and the door and everyone in London.

And mostly, leaving me to hate _**almost**_ in silence, because it's so close but so damn far away, and I can never handle almost.


	5. Chapter 5

**a/u: well. i got kicked out of spanish for reading. o k a y. (not a Plath fan, I take it.) anyway, enjoy. reviews are always welcome. **

**–––––**

**_I don't want your sympathy,_**

**_I don't want your honesty–_**

**_I just wanna get some peace of mind. _**

I tell myself that I'm angry with Sherlock. After all, the man is a damn asshole to everyone; I'm hardly an acceptation. In all retrospect, I should be angry at him. Then again, I should also be embarrassed about waking up in his bed, but you know what? I don't.

He's gone by the time I get home from surgery. There's a note with his slick scrawl in it, sitting on the living room table. His handwriting is slanted ever so slightly, and I memorize the way that his letters loop on the back of the sheet of paper.

_On a case for My. Home late- don't be worried. _

There was something different about the last phrase. Almost as if he had written it as an afterthought, coming to mind when he's half way out the door. I can almost see him paused in the doorway, blue eyes narrowed in decision. The image makes me grin.

Outside, the sky is beginning to blossom into a deep gray canvas. It looks like it might rain. In fact, I think it will, because my shoulder is aching like it always does before a storm; not badly, but enough to make me remember (really remember) the war. The ache is almost good; reminds me that I'm here and not there. I'm in London, drinking tea, and not choking on sand and the blood of my dying friends.

It thunders for almost a hour before it starts to rain. Dry, almost sarcastic rumbles that shake the windowpane and send me back to my childhood. Lots of dry storms. They were my favorite, until they got too loud.

I'm not angry at Sherlock until he comes home.

He opens the door suddenly, and it takes me a moment to realize that he didn't open it more than he fell into it. Limping. Staggering. There's blood on his brow, but his eyes are alert. The doctor in me springs into action, steadying him when he almost trips. My fingers lace into his coat; he's shivering.

Smiling. **_He's smiling._**

"G'off, John, I'm fine," he says, pushing my hands away.

Sherlock takes a moment to lean against the wall. I stand, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation; I don't get one. Fuming, I watch him slug over to the couch. He unties his shoe and grimaces when he slides it off.

"John, really, do you have t–"

"Yes," I snap, bending down to his swollen ankle, "obviously I do because you can't seem to be smart enough to stay out of trouble."

Sherlock pulls away from my touch. "Stop. I'm fine."

"You're injured!"

He sighs and looks like he wants to try and stand, but something keeps him here with me.

"And bloody… and soaked to the bone." I give a bitter laugh. "You'll catch your death."

"Can't catch a cold from the cold," he says icily. Crosses his arms. "It's not that big of a deal, John. No need to make a mout-"

"God, shut up!"

My yelling caught Sherlock off guard; for all the deductions in the world, I don't think he expected it. His jaw is ajar for a second before he presses his lips in a thin line. Sherlock stands. So do I. We stand chest to chest for a moment, so close I could smell him; Sherlock smells like the city, and looks like it, too, with wild eyes and wayward fingers. He tugs at the cuff of his coat (the one nervous habit he seems to have) and then silently slips past me.

I do not tell myself to be angry with Sherlock. I just am.

He closes the door to his bedroom; not loudly, but loud enough for me to get the message not to follow.

I go to my room and do the same, as if we are children, and do not go back downstairs. My tea is still sitting in the living room. For a moment I think about tiptoeing downstairs and nabbing it, but I don't want to have to face Sherlock; not that I think he's anywhere but his bedroom. The floors are thin.

At quarter to midnight, the front door opens; slowly, as if Sherlock thinks I'm asleep. As if he's trying not to wake me. I walk over to the window and look down; I have a decent view of the front sidewalk, but I don't need one to tell me that he's not going anywhere.

He sits on the bottom step, bare feet planted on the freezing sidewalk. Arms folded across his chest. I walk back to bed.

_I don't care. It's his fault if he wants to catch his death._

I crawl back under my covers. Try to sleep.

_It's not my problem, anyway. _

I wonder why he's sitting outside; if maybe he's trying to see the stars.

_Damn fool._

The minutes feel like hours, and he doesn't come in. I imagine him, deep in thought, and think that maybe he's trying to memorize the pattern of the sky as it folds out above that great head of his.

A good forty minutes have passed by the time I sigh loudly and swing my legs out of bed. Lightly, so as not to wake Ms. Hudson, I tread down the stairs. My feet made little padded _thuds_ on the wood; wonder of Sherlock has heard me coming.

Part of me wonders why I'm doing this. Part of me wonders why I waited this long.

When I open the door, he doesn't turn to me; his shirt is thin (too thin for the after-rain chill) and I can see the tiny mountains his spine makes in the pale fabric. I stand in the doorway and study him the way I sometimes catch him studying me; memorize the soft curl of hair at the nape of his neck and the way his shoulders lift and fall when he breathes.

"You'll catch your death out there," I say, jokingly.

He doesn't respond. Sherlock turns to me, and his eyes are closed off and vacant. He looks numb.

"Come inside."

Again, Sherlock just stares at me, but then he seems to realize how cold he is, and pushes himself off the cement steps. I hold out my hand, because it looks like he's going to fall.

"How's your ankle?"

He's cleaned off the blood from his face. "Okay."

"Good."

When we get inside, he starts to shiver, all at once, and sits down on the couch. Draws his long legs up to his chest. I watch him, and he watches me watch him.

"Why are you still here?"

"You're freezing."

"I'm fine."

I walk over to pull off the blanket from the back of the couch, and brush his shirt with my arm. It's damp, and I look down to tell him he should change into something dry when I see them.

I'm a doctor; I've seen my fair share of scars and stories, and I've seen scars exactly like the ones etched on my friends forearm, but the sight of them chills me to the core. They're angular and straight. Perfect. Making a fading river from just above where he wrist starts and disappearing into his shirt sleeve; dotted with age old track marks.

Sherlock is still shivering, and he's noticed me looking at his arm, and pulls the blanket from me. Lays it around his shoulder. Covers his torn up arms.

But I've had enough half'-truths, so I reach forward and wrap my hand around his arm. I remind him that I'm a doctor– that I want to help.

They go almost up to his shoulder. In a way, they're beautiful; perfectly straight and almost the same length. But there's one that runs through all of them, as if dividing them all in two. I can see that it required stitches. In fact, the little holes on either side of the scar are still visible.

Sherlock has gone cold in my touch. I look up to him, and see that his eyes are the darkest I've ever seen them; he looks like the sea.

"Are there more?" I ask.

"John."

"I'm…" I want to apologize, but I can't, because my apologies can't take back whatever it was that pushed him this far.

"Yes."

"More? There are more?" My voice is quiet; almost quieter than Sherlock's. He nods.

He lets me lift up his shirt, and I see them lining his lower abdomen, peaking up from beneath his pants. They kiss his hipbone. When I go to look at his back, because I see shinny scar tissure there, too, he stops me.

Sherlock's hands are cold; he winds them around my wrist and shakes his head.

"I can't."

"Okay," I say.

He's still shaking, and I have a feeling it's not from the cold, so I wrap the blanket tighter around him and pull him towards me. I rest my chin on his head. Sherlock doesn't stop shaking; I don't ask him if he's okay.

"I'm tired." His voice is muffled by my shirt; I feel his words on my chest.

It's weird to see him like this (all quiet words and silent fingers) but I don't object when he wraps his hand around my wrist. Not demanding; asking.

_I don't want to be alone_, he says with his footsteps, and the noise that the sheets make when they fall around us only further that thought.

I curl around his body. Again, he finds refuge with his forehead level with my lips and his leg slipped between my own. His hair brushes against my lips– I almost want to kiss his forehead.

When I think he's asleep, he shifts so that he can see me; and when he looks at me, I want to kiss him, more than I think I've ever wanted to kiss anybody in my entire life.


	6. Chapter 6

**a/u: thank you guys foe the reviews and stuff; it means a lot. hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed wiring this chapter. happy reading.**

I've never felt the immense need to kiss someone before John. Wanting and needing are two different things; but I felt that to kiss John was to breathe. It wasn't even a question of whether or not he wanted to kiss me. I knew the signs. The way his breaths hitched on his lips (parted, just so) and how those ocean blue eyes flashes down to my own and then back up to my eyes. His heart did a little jump in his chest; I could feel it, with the way my hands still laid against him.

In the pale light, he was soft and beautiful.T he moonlight infused itself in him, I swear, and he was the most stunning person I've ever known.

But I still couldn't do it. I couldn't kiss John Watson.

The sheets made little whispering noises as his arm pulled tighter around my waist; a suggestion. I came to his chest and pressed my face into his neck. He was warm; like the sun. His breathing didn't slow, like he was going to sleep. I wondered if maybe I should kiss him, then; just plant my lips against the soft skin of his neck.

It could be nice; kissing him. But I don't.

I don't kiss him, and I don't sleep- even after I'm sure he's fallen asleep again. Instead I listen to the rise and fall of his chest, and the sound of his shirt against my skin when he stirs. John's beautiful when he's asleep. Looks much younger; much happier.

I wonder what he dreams about. Not the war; he's too still for that wreckage in his mind. No, there must be something else.

When the sun begins to spread its' fingers across my bed, I disentangle myself from John. He clings to me for a moment. I pause, and his hand slips from my back and falls to the empty mattress, still warm from my would-be-dreams as I exit the room. My footsteps sound like lies. I don't want to go. But since I don't know how to face John, not after what he's seen, I continue on down the hallway and into the bathroom.

I can't bring myself to look in the mirror. Instead I turn on the shower and just listen to it for a while before getting in. My thoughts stray, somehow winding up in the back storage of my mind, tugging at a box until it spills into my subconscious; its' contents litter my mind like trash. I try to pack it all up. I imagine myself I mid motion, shoving it all back inside like the memory were nothing more than a broken vase or a picture frame. Anything but this.

_I am sixteen; and I have begun to fight back. _

_When he hits, so do I. We've reached middle ground. For now, and for the past few weeks, I am safe. My bruises are healing. The lashes on my back are months old. They don't feel real; instead like a dream, half-assed andvacant, until I reach between my shoulder blades and feel them. That's when their real. That's when it hurts again. _

_So if I don't touch the scars, and if nobody else touches them, I hurt less, and I don't have to compete with anyone else for hurting me, so it gets a little better. _

_My brother comes home during the Spring, and I can see in his eyes that he's changed. I have not seen him in 11 months. At that age, 11 months can be more like 11 years, and I can read the age in his face like I could read a book. Mycroft isn't my brother anymore; he's a stranger. _

_"How's the cello?" he asks over dinner. _

_"Violin." _

_"Right. I'm sorry."  
Mycroft doesn't look sorry. He looks like he's gained weight; I can see the extra pounds in his face, and I can see traces of cigarette smoking around his lips. _

_My father doesn't speak throughout dinner. My mother is asleep by nine o'clock, and Mycroft is 'out visiting some old friends'. _

_By ten o'clock, I'm restless and homesick (because I'm unsure if this house is really my home, so I need to find a __**home**__), so I tiptoe into Mycroft's room. I dig through his bag until my suspicious are confirmed; he has begun smoking. _

_At sixteen, I'm curious and wondering what it's like to have something other than air in my lungs, so I nab a lighter as well and steal off into the night. _

_The stars aren't out, but it's warm outside; it'll be summer soon. I can taste it. It's everywhere, just floating in the air and underneath the old fallen tree I sit on. For a second I stare at the things in my palm; exciting and new. _

_When I take my first drag, I think I'm about to pass out. My head is in the clouds, my limbs fuzzy and light. I am nowhere. Part of me feels a little sick from the lack of oxygen, so I draw my knees up my my chest and take some deep breathes. I taste the nicotine on my lips. It's bitter but almost sweet, like hard candy that your grandmother gives you and you don't like it at first, but if you keep it in your mouth, you grow to love it. _

_Tart and dry, but something underneath- and I'm left feeling dizzy and numb. _

_I've never kissed anyone before, but suddenly I want to know if it's anything like smoking. _

I shut off the shower and finished shoving the shard remains of the memory back in the box. My breathing was coming in tuffs.

No more. _No mor__**e no morenomorenomore.**_

I concentrate on drying myself and putting on my clothes. The motions calm me, because they're ordinary and human and good. Normal. Pulling on long sleeves helps to comfort me, because once I can't see scars, and I can't touch them, I feel a little better.

Out of sight, out of mind. (as if.)

John is in the living room. The sunlight seems to reach out to him, wrapping its' arms around his sorrow-skin and leaving him with traces of it still in his hair; shimmering. He looks like a sunrise. I wonder if he has ever wondered about the moon, and the deep love the moon must have for the sun, because I have, (a lot), just like how I keep thinking about John (even more than the sun and the moon).

The sunlight falls off of him when he turns.

"I"m sorry," he says, and he looks like he means it. "I don't know what happened, but I'm really sorry and I know that I can't really help you, but if it's ever something you want to talk about…" John trails off and just holds his open palms up to me, as if my whole story will fall into his outstretched fingers.

I'm dizzy all over again, (sixteen and smoking under the stars) and left with the aching urge to kiss him.


	7. Chapter 7

**a/u: the next few chapter might be a little darker, so be warned. as always, reviews are welcome & happy reading!**

When Sherlock slips past me and out the door, my first instinct is to run after him; then comes the wave of _Oh just let him go_. So I do. He doesn't leave angry, just… something else. I can't explain the look in those pale eyes, and I can't explain why I feel so incredibly lonely. The absence of him seems to root itself in my chest, with the promise of aching gardens blooming inside my ribcage.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– ––

Work goes slowly. The patients creep in and creep out, droning on about endless symptoms when I had already diagnosed them within in the first few minutes. But I let them talk. Their words hit me like lukewarm water, saturating my clothes and leaving me almost shivering.

"And it just doesn't stop. I mean, he'll have nights where he's okay, but then for weeks on end he's…" The lady stopped speaking and threw her hands in the air.

I had explained to her that I'm not the right kind of doctor for this. I look at the boy, about five, sitting on the floor at his mothers feet. He's blonde and blue-eyes, small for his age, with a dark splash of freckles across his nose and cheek bones. When he smiles, I see a few missing teeth.

"I don't know what to tell you, other than to see a different doctor. But he's young," I offer, " and kids have nightmares. It's natural. Just comfort him." My words feel heavy in my mouth.

After a few more words, she leaves, her toe-headed boy at her heels. He shoots me a doe-eyed look before she closed the door.

I check my phone in between patients. Still no sign of Sherlock.

_Find a case? JW_

_Solved. Bored.  
-SH_

_Want to get dinner? JW_

He didn't reply, but I didn't expect him to.

By the time I get home, my bones have accumulated a hollow feeling, as if I might blow away with the growing winds. The flat is still empty. Again, loneliness roots itself inside of me and I think of calling up Sara, but the idea is half-hearted at best. I stand for a moment in the sitting room. Winds whip against the windows; they give a slight whining rattle, complaining.

I eat alone, (but that's not new; I like it) and when I sit down and open a paper, I hear the door open.

Footsteps- slow, mechanical. Light footed.

I know the man by his footsteps, and the way he turns the doorknob, but I don't recognize the look I his face when he sees me.

"Hello."

"'Evening, John," he mutters, and actually hangs up his coat.

Suddenly I'm filled to the brim with questions; about his day, about his dreams, about _him_, but all I do is stare as he sits down on the couch and begins to untie his scarf. His fingers fumble.

"Numb?"

He looks up at me, confused, before resuming his trying to undo the knot. "No, of course not."

I stand up and reach for him, but he tenses when my hand is outstretched. The muscles in his neck are marble, and I let my hand drop to my side. We stare at each other.

The action of my hand dropping to my side fills me with irrational anger. I try to turn my back, but Sherlock has seen it, and his voice is quiet.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," I mumble, and turn to face him. "Long day."

"Moody?" His lips curl up.

"Yes," I snap.

When he finally gets the piece of fabric off, he stands and starts towards me, but his foot catches on the end of the table and he lands on his hands and knees.

He doesn't curse, but when he falls his shirt slips off his shoulder a tad and I see a map of scars.

"What happened to your back?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He stands, brushes himself off and walks past me. His fingers shake. I want to ask him what's wrong, but I know by now not to ask that.

"Did someone do that to you?"

He pauses; the light from the sitting room window extends into the hall, and the shadows catch on his long limbs like they're trying to take him with them.

"No, John," he says, practically spitting my name, "I did it to myself."

"I don't believe you." I take a step forward. "I want to help."

When Sherlock turns, I see a hurricane in his eyes; dark clouds wind themselves around his irises, and he is an eternal storm in that moment.

"I don't need your help."

"You sure did last night," I say, icily, and I almost regret it.

His reaction is slow; first his eyes widen, (shock) and then his gaze drops to the floor.

For a moment, when he walks towards me, I think he might hit me, but then he kisses me. Softly, first, and he pulls away. I can read the _oh god no I've made a mistake _in his piercing eyes before I pull him to me, and I come to realize that I've never been kissed like this before.

Half desperation and half angst, but full of things I can't hope to read. He tastes like I think the city would taste like; smoke and mystery and a soft hint of something hesitant hidden underneath. Sherlock moves against me, and my back finds the wall, and his hands slide down my shoulders until one tangles itself in my hair.

He traces the line of my jaw with his finger after he pulls away, breathless. I still have my hand pulling at the back of his shirt. His skin feels heated beneath my palms, and I felt the ridges of the still-a-mystery scars as I traces his spine.

When my fingers fall over one of the scars, his body tenses in my grip. I feel him begin to pull away.

"Sherlock," I mummer.

He looks at me. I reach out and my fingers fall onto his collarbone, but I am unable to speak. Sherlock looks like he belongs to the nighttime, because he's so damn dark, but when I touch him he leans forward; almost shyly.

"Will you just tell me?" I ask, and I don't need to elaborate.

I see the thoughts flutter around in that mastermind for a brief second before he shakes his head. His curls fall into his forehead.

"I can't," he says, and I start to think that maybe he's telling the truth.

I follow him to the bedroom and we curl around each other again; my lips in his hair and his breath deep on my collarbone, swirling away the last of the roots of my lonesome until he wakes screaming, like I knew he would–

again, he's filled with that silent _**I can't **_and so I hold him against me, shaking along with him, because this is one thing I can't fix.


	8. Chapter 8

**a/u: this may take a while, after this chapter, because i have writers block and i don't like to push stories when i'm blocked. so feedback is appreciated, and if you want to give me how you want this story to go, tell me; i could use some ideas. as always, enjoy! **

I wake up with John's fingers tracing my spine through my shirt. For a moment I don't open my eyes and try to keep my breathing slow, childishly savoring the feel of his palm across my skeleton. His touch was like rain.

He knew I was awake. It was obvious, because his hand started to slow, and inch by inch it crept up until his finger wrapped around one of my curls. John gave a soft tug.

"You're so bad at pretending to be asleep," he mumbles.

I feel his words more than I hear them. They're everywhere; sinking into my bones and marrow, finding refuge in the pink flesh of my lungs. When I don't respond, John starts stroking my back again.

And I don't mind him touching the scars, and I know that if I tell him this I'll have to explain it all; and I know that I might have to explain it all anyway, so I open my mouth.

No words.

They get hitched on my tongue and refuse to come out- it's not that I can't think of any. No; I have them all lined up, standing on the edge of my highways, ready for battle. But they just _don't come._ So I close my mouth and bite the inside of my cheek, because the pain gives me gentle reminder that I'm still here.

"You don't have to… you know."

I open my eyes and look at John; he's soft in the early morning sun, and just like every day, I'm struck with how beautiful he is. But maybe he's only beautiful because he's uncommon, and challenging and I couldn't figure him out. Do people find beauty in the face? That seems awfully shallow. I think beauty should be measured in your mind, because there's no point in being beautiful in you're an idiot.

John wasn't an idiot.

"I used to hurt myself."

My words tasted falsified and dull, as if it were all so simple as that I 'hurt myself'. But I knew that if I kept talking, I wouldn't stop, because I didn't yet know how to limit what I said on the subject.

"Why?"

"Because I could," I said, as if it were that easy.

John must have understood, because he wrapped his arms a little tighter around me. He didn't push me. But I didn't need it.

It was like a floodgate opening, all the boxes in that far corner of my mind toppling over and their insides pooling around my feet. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I had so much to say, but not enough words. I stared at John. He looked solid, like bedrock, and I reached my hand out to him. Felt his skin under my palm. John was warm and his breathing soft, little reminders of sleep still clinging to his skin.

"When I was four," I said, "my mother told me that being gay was a sin."

That seemed to have said a lot, that phrase, because John kissed me again. I wondered if scars could really tell stories. They must have told him a lot, because he held me a little tighter after I say it.

Just like that, my life-line spills out of my mouth like a broken tape.

_I am seven years old and my mother stays in her room for four whole fays._

John keeps a steady rhythm on that spot right between my shoulder blades, as if it'll make it easier.

_Almost 9; I come home late and find my mother cleaning up the mess my father has made. There are pieces of glass in her delicate hands and she turns to me. I see the bruises blooming across her clavicle like a bed of roses and I ask her why we don't just leave, and she gets all sad and says, "your father is a good man, Sherlock; he's just a little angry, sometimes."_

It feels like hours until I stop. I'm aware that I'm shaking; near panic-attack range, and John knows, because he tells me I don't have to keep going, and I don't.

"I'm sorry," he mutters into my hair.

"About what?"

"I don't know." I hear him work his jaw. "Everything."

"I…" My words get tangled in a little ball under my tongue; John kisses my head. I had the urge to apologize, but couldn't fine the right phrases to use.

I know that, logically, it doesn't matter. It wasn't my fault (none of it was) but there was that minute part of me, wound up in the pit of my rib cage, that needed just to hear those words: _not your fault. _I know that the sun will continue to rise; it will stretch its fiery fingers up and push away the moon, even though it really loves the moon, and lie itself across the horizon.

But no matter how many times the sun has to say goodbye to the moon, I will still want to wake in John's lazy embrace.


	9. Chapter 9

**a/u: i'm back! sorry for the short chapter. will continue soon. reviews are welcome. happy reading.**

For a while, all is calm. Or, as calm as it could get while living with Sherlock. We've gotten back in the rut of everyday life, with me going to surgery and him working cases, and sometimes we overlap; those are the days when we get home, breathless and sweaty from a chase. Those are the nights when he kisses me harder.

I can taste the adrenaline in him, and I drink him in in desperate gulps. He leaves bite marks on my neck.

We don't say that we love each other- there is no need.

"Words are just a distraction," he murmurers to me one night.

We are a mess of sweaty limbs, and there's a light purple flower blooming below his ear, which I trace with my finger.

I think at first that it would bother me, but it doesn't. He knows how I feel and him, myself.

The nightmares have stopped. We don't talk about them, and I don't bring it up, because when I do, I see that vacant, hollow look spread over his eyes.

He looks dead.

And I did not wait for him all those years, after he fell, just to have him fade away again.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

It's nearly spring; the snow is thawing and with the warmer weather comes a phone call in the early hours of the morning. Sherlock stumbled out of bed, (out of my hold) and finds his phone in the dark.

"Hello," he mutters.

All I can make out is a slope of syllables and Sherlock's gravely voice.

"When?"

He gets his answer. "No. I won't go."

When he ends the call and climbs back into bed with me, I can tell by the way he lies that he is not going back to sleep.

"Who was that?" I ask.

"Mycroft."

"It's four am. What did he want?"

Sherlock doesn't answer right away. I see his defenses go up and watch him pull his limbs together, folding up within himself. Works his jaw.

He looks cold, clad in pajama pants and a thin teeshirt. Chilled and dazed.

"My father," he said, slowly, "is dying."

I know that in those fragile moments after he spoke, I should have said something, but all I could do was wrap my arms around his body. He doesn't cry. Not that I expect him to.

But Sherlock doesn't speak, which is almost worse; and I don't speak, because I'm suddenly afraid that my words will shatter him. Crush him up until he is nothing but dust collecting over forgotten picture frames.

When the sun starts to rise, we look at each other, and know that neither of us has slept. I kiss him. Sherlock presses into me, hard, and there's something thunderous lurking behind his lips before he breaks away. My heart is racing.

I leave him laying there and make my way to the kitchen. Prepare breakfast for two, although I know that he won't eat it. I don't know if I'll eat.

The floor creaks and then Sherlock is standing in the doorway, all nervous fingers and dark eyes, and my words come out before I can stop them.

"It's going to be okay."

"I hate him," he says.

"I know," I respond, even though I don't know.

Sherlock runs a hand through his hair and stares at the floor. "If there's a hell," he said softly, so that I can hardly hear him, "he'll go there."

I wonder if there's some part of Sherlock that still believes in God.

When I hug him, his heart is thundering and he's shaking, but he lets me hold him, and for that I am grateful.

"I love you," I say.

"I know."

Sun starts to shine through the living room window. Though somewhere out there, Sherlock's father is dying, the man in front of me winds his fingers around my wrist as if I'm the only thing that matters, and I kiss him again, because he looks sad and in that moment, I really don't think that he hates his father.

I don't think he hates anyone.


	10. Chapter 10

**a/u: hey so i'm supper busy, but it's coming together, at least. reviews welcome. happy reading! (ps, thanks for the support you guys gave. it means a lot.)**

It was one of those days where John and I overlapped. We fell into each other like the sea falls into the sand- salty and on the verge of uncontrolled; bitter, in a sense. Beautiful, in another. One giant mix of things that I can't begin to explain, which in itself is unknown to me.

I can gather up your life story like lose change just by gauging your stance, but I cannot tell you why I love John like I do. I need him like the rain needs the wind.

We come back to the flat, damp and chilled from the rain. The case is solved. Our skin is covered in little bumps, little forget-me-not's from the biting wind, and we make our way upstairs; from there, to the bedroom. A pile of damp clothes on the floor (tomorrow's worries), and John curls around me. We seem to rotate around each other, like planets orbiting the sun. I decide that John would be the sun. He's so warm.

I don't tell John that I love him. Not with words, anyway- no, because words are just noise and noise is just so _usual._ There is nothing usual about John. So I knit my fingers between his and let my confessions fall in heaps below his collarbone, or I just look at him- memorize how his eyes look at 3 am when we're both too suborn to sleep, and when moonlight is tugging at his eyelids. John looks beautiful when he's in between one world and another.

When I fall asleep, I do so because John's body has become warm and slack in my arms. The rhythm of his breathing lures me to dreams.

I don't know what time it is when my phone rings. It's dark, and there's not enough time for my eyes to adjust, so I stumble over and pick it up.

Mycroft tells me that I need to come home.

"Father is very ill. Come see him."

My brother doesn't want me there for sedimental reasons. I know that like I know the sun rises. No; he wants me there for the sake of appearance.

"I can't," I say, cooly, and I mean it.

Suddenly I'm filled with a thousand lost words, things that I cannot tell my brother. I hang up. The silence that follows John and I's short conversation is carnivorous, (cannibalistic, even) and I fell it sink into the pit of my every fiber.

In the morning, when I tell John that I hate my father, I tell myself that I mean it.

"I love you," John says to me.

I tell him that I love him too, just in my own way. He understands.

I wind my fingers around his wrist and feel his pulse against my skin. It reminds me that John is still here; loving and breathing and whole, and it is enough to keep me steady.

John goes to work. I get a call from a man I went to university with. He says that he's in need of my assistance; something stolen, someone threatened, and my mind is so full of unbearable nothing-ness that I take the case for the sake of distraction.

It's a simple one (but aren't they all?). Motive, suspect, and, finally, the criminal, all fall into my open palm. If one just understands simple human sociology, it's easy to solve.

You see, most of what humans do, we do out of two key reasons:

selfishness.

dishonesty.

Don't get worked up, now. You're not going to hell. It's subconscious; we can't help it, or, so they say. If someone wants someone badly enough, they will do everything in their power to get it, even if they add a few more bodies to the soil in the process.

Secrets appeal to everybody. Even if you don't think that you're being dishonest, chances are, you are.

As much as I try to be, I am not fully immune to these faults in our nature, because when Mycroft calls me again to ask me to come to my father side, I refuse. Again.

"This is most likely his last night," he tells me.

I don't respond. He signs; scratches his head, a sound so usual that I can almost see him do it. _**Almost.**_

"Come, see him. Say goodbye, at least. For the sake of… normalcy."

"No." **Selfishness. **

"Why not, brother?"

"I don't want to."

"Why do you resent him, so?" In that moment, Mycroft sounds older than the mountains.

"I don't resent him." **Dishonesty.** "I'm busy, Mycroft. I don't have time for this."

I hang up, then, because I know if I don't I'll wind up telling him everything. Like how I don't _resent _him- I hate him. I hate him with every bone in my body.

I hate him for all the scars.

I hate him for all the invisible scars.

I hate him for making me hate him and I hate him for making me hate myself and _**goddammit**_ I hate him for making me hate Mycroft a little, too.

Every time he he hit me, a little bit of my broke off and floated off into space. And every single time a piece of me snapped off, there were more shreds of myself, too, from where I had to prove that _I was in control, _and they met up with the ones that _**he **_ all the lashes and the screaming, there should be enough to make a constellation, at least. Something.

I press my palms against my eyes, knowing that even if it is his last night alive, he will die sometime- and I will go to the funeral, because no matter how much I hate him, I can't not go.

Words pound inside my skull. Piercing.

**h**_**atehatehatehatehatehate.**_


	11. Chapter 11

The flat is dark when I enter. It's obvious that nobody had been in here since this morning. I stand in the shadows for a moment before I flick on the light and take off my coat, which I hardly need anymore; it's getting warm.

"Sherlock?" I call, even though I know that he's not here.

Silence. Expected, but it stirs something deep in my chest. I untie my shoes and check my watch. Half past five.

As soon as the kettle is boiled I curl myself into my usual chair. The faces of patients fly by me, hovering right above my ear and yapping about things that I wish I could care about, when all I could see during the day was how dreadfully _awake_ Sherlock had looked last night.

He looks very young when he's pulled from sleep like that. The stars still infused in his veins, nighttime threatening to eat him up and, god, his eyes filled with cold afternoons.

_My father is dying._

I wonder if he cared. My tea grows cold. I tell myself not to dwell on the fact that it's nearly nine, now, and he isn't home. Hasn't called.

_Where are you? -JW_

There is no response; I'm not sure if I expected one. When I left him this morning, he was vacant and had a numb look to his eyes- as if sometime had taken all his nerves out and wrapped them in ice, cooling him to the point of unfeeling. Frigid. Like if you touched him, a piece of him would break off into your palm.

It's nearly eleven when Sherlock comes home. I'm almost asleep, but I shake myself awake to see his push the door open slowly. Takes his time. It makes a low groaning noise, like a cello's deep song, handled by a firm hand, and I stand up. He doesn't meet my eyes.

"Hi," I say.

He doesn't answer. He smells like cigarettes.

"Where've you been?" My voice is light; conversational.

But Sherlock begins to walk past me with a passive air to him.

"Are you high?"

"No."

We stand, then, with him facing his bedroom and me staring at his back. I look at the dark mess of curls at the base of his neck. Neither of us talk.

His breathing is deep, even, but get the sudden sense that he's doing everything in his power to keep it that way.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine, John." Sherlock's voice is like a lake in January.

"You've been smoking," I note.

"So observant."

"You don't need to be an asshole."

"You don't need to question me about everything I do," Sherlock says, turning to me, "but yet you're doing it."

"I'm trying to help you!" I'm beginning to lose my gentle edge.

"I don't _need _help."

Sherlock looked like he was made of electricity; static eyes and grating voice, and I took a step back. My heart started to pound.

"Fine."

"Good, then."

_Leave me alone,_ were his unspoken words, and I did.

I'm still awake 4 hours later. It's the first time in weeks that I've slept alone. My sheets feel more like ice than fabric, and my bed is like an ocean; I've never felt so alone.

Downstairs, I hear a short lived scream. I can tell you without looking that Sherlock woke from a nightmare and clamped his hand over his mouth to keep the scream quiet and little. It's a habit from sleeping with me; trying not to wake me.

But he did. He always did. And I never minded.

The shower turns on. I hear the pipes begin to hum as he washes away the bad dream, and I grow more and more lonely by the minute. My fingers ache.

After a while, I notice that the singing pipes have quieted themselves. The sound of footsteps wonder up the stairs and find me already sitting up. Deliberating.

I should be angry with Sherlock.

But I'm not.

Quietly, I pad down the stairs and find myself in the doorway of his room. He lies on his back, clad in a pair of pajama bottoms, his skin glowing like white fire in the darkness that whispers to me as I slide into bed next to him.

Sherlock doesn't stir. I know he's not asleep.

His hair is still damp; the smell of his shampoo is sweet and almost bitter. His skin is cool to the touch.

I lay my palm on his chest, fingers stretched out across his breastbone. Trace the curve of his bones beneath my fingers. He is silent, but it's not because he doesn't talk.

Sherlock is silent even when he talks. Something about the way his chest rises and falls into my open palm as the words fall like blood from between his soft lips.

"I'm sorry."

"I know," I say.

More breathing. He relaxes under my touch, and I watch as the last bits of the nightmare disconnect with his damp skin and float off into the air.

"The funeral is tomorrow."

No point in asking who it's for.

I trace his breastbone some more. My index finger falls into the dent between his two ribs, pushing silent apologizes into his skin because I can't bare to say them. Sherlock sighs.

When his lips part, I imagine everything he's ever wanted to say sliding out from his lips, pushed by his shaking lungs; but that doesn't happen.

He doesn't say anything that I know he's dying to say, but he reaches over and wraps his fingers around my wrist; kisses me.

It's not much, but it's enough.


	12. Chapter 12

**a/u: sorry this took so long! i've either been at work or school or dealing with personal issues. this one is hopefully a little longer. reviews, as always, are welcome. happy reading!**

It's been days since I've slept.

Hours spent in the dulled moonlight studying John's sleeping for and replaying our apologetic conversations, and my fingers tracing the soft skin between his shoulders; stumbling over the criss-cross bumps of his scar. He doesn't wake. I don't want him to.

I don't feel many things, but in these nights, I feel guilt. I feel it work its' way across my body like ants swarming hungrily over a carcass.

Beautiful and revolting.

John wakes slowly. He's most interesting at this time, (somewhere between his lucid dreams and my touch) and sometimes I wonder if he forgets where he is. Maybe he thinks, for a second, that he's still in the desert. In the war. His eyelids are still heavy, and John knows that I didn't sleep.

He knows that I know that he knows.

And he doesn't mention it.

Knows that it won't help.

"Goodmornin'." His voice is thick with dreams.

"Goodmorning."

We don't talk. I know that I ought to shower and get dressed and start towards my old house. John know's, too; but, again, he doesn't say anything. His hands cup my face.

"It'll be okay."

"I know."

The silence has returned. I pull myself from his touch; John watches me leave the room, and I do not turn to him, because if I do, I'll lose all the momentum I have gained, and I'll curl back under the covers, let his arms fall around me and I will not go to the funeral.

_I will pick you up at eleven am. _

_-MC_

I am ready to go at ten fifty seven am, and spend the extra three minutes chewing on the inside of my cheek for all the things that I'll never get to say to my dead father.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

My father died of old age more than anything; he was angry and confused in his last few days, Mycroft tells me.

"He asked about you."

I run my fingers over the seats of his car. "Did he?"

"He thought," my brother says, "that it was the summer of your first year of university." _The one where you stopped calling and wouldn't come home._

Quietness starts to eat away at the edges of us, and I don't stop it.

The funeral begins at one o'clock on the dot. Even in death, my father is punctual.

I look down over the side of the coffin, and realize that this is the first time in nearly ten years that I have looked at my father.

A thousand lost words fine their way to my mouth. Bitter. They pool beneath my tongue, burning away the skin between my teeth, and for a second I'm afraid that I'm going to vomit. I will never get to say them.

By the time that anybody notices that I'm gone, I'm down the block.

Coat thrown over my shoulder, my hair un-parted and falling into my eyes, I tune into the sharp _click click _my shoes make on the sun is warm, almost over-bearing to me in my all black attire, but I don't stop. There's no breeze; sweat begins to collect on my forehead. I don't know where I'm going until I'm there.

By there, I mean the park about a mile from my childhood home. It's falling down; forgotten.

I take a sweat on a swing. I am too tall, and it's awkward and clumsy but I don't move. It creaks beneath my weight.

For all the things that I know, I can't begin to tell why I'm so filled with rage. It's like this big messy mug that had somehow boiled over onto my skin, covering my body with fine cracks that nobody but me can see.

I know that if I shatter, nobody will know why.

Footsteps on the scattered gravel- it's been years since I've heard it.

"That was rude."

I don't need to look up to know that it's my brother standing in front of me. The swing gives another soft cry as I push myself back wards a little, letting my heels dig in so that I wouldn't go forward.

Mycroft doesn't speak (I don't want him too), but when I look at him he looks like he's going to say something important. I try not to listen.

"I don't know what father did to you so make you hate him so much."

His words cut through me like knives. The highway in my head came to a roadblock, all the cars honking and cursing, but all singing the same song.

_He knew. He knew. __**He knew.**_

"Really?"

"It's been over a decade, brother. Whatever scars he left you," Mycroft says, putting his hands in his pockets, "they must have faded by now."

Again, I am filled with unexplainable rage. My hands shake. Vision swims. I feel as if my blood has turned to fire, and I have never wanted to hit someone as badly as I want to hit my brother in that moment.

"Not all scars fade," I whisper, unsure if I can keep my voice steady.

A breeze pushes the hair from my face, and Mycroft tries to catch me eye before he turns and begins to walk away.

"We're lowering him in an hour. Compose yourself and meet me back at the hour in thirty minutes." His voice is low and in that tone that my father took with me many times as a young boy.

"No."

"Don't be childish."

"Screw off, Mycroft," I say, pushing myself off the swing and walking towards him. "You can go bury him, because god knows it will make all the difference once he's six feet under."

He pulls up the corner of his mouth and then turns away from me, gravel dust flowing behind him as he left me standing in the old parking lot; fists clenched and trembling, suddenly without the ability to breathe.

It comes to my attention then that no matter how badly it hurts, I will never be able to explain it to my brother, because he only observed. He never really, truly _knew. _

The angst-filled cracks on my body begin to ache, threatening to pull me apart fiber-by-fiber. I wish for oblivion to pull my limbs apart.

Mycroft doesn't come back, and I don't want him to.

But I think that some foolish part of me needed him to, because I stand there for a good two hours with dust in my eyes and blood on my hands from clenching my fists before I find it in my to start making my way home.


	13. Chapter 13

**a/u: final chapter. thank you to everyone who has given me feedback, it was very much loved! i'm so glad to have gotten to write this. it's actually helped me shape a few of my own writing habits. i hope to begin another story soon. (reviews welcome, happy reading!) **

I don't expect Sherlock home until seven o'clock; it's half fast five and he slips through the door like air.

His hair is messy and there are traces of dust on his black shirt. Dried blood on his palms. He licks his lips, like he's about to talk, except he doesn't.

"What happened?" I ask.

The television is a dull muttering in the corner of my attention. Sherlock looks past me and out the window, as if searching for something in the heavy sunset light that has spread itself over the back of the couch. I become hyper aware of how warm it is on my neck. He bites his lip.

It occurs to me that I've never seen Sherlock cry, and he looks damn close right then- standing in front of the half-closed door with his hands limp at his sides. He swallows hard.

He looks just like a made up character in a storybook, expect the author hit the space bar one too many times. Blank.

An empty paragraph.

"Wanna sit down?" I keep my voice low.

Sherlock shakes his head, slowly, and his hair falls into his eyes. He brushes it away with the back of his hand quickly, shaking, and I stand up and walk towards him.

"It'll be okay."

"How do you know?"

His tone is bitter, but tired.

"I don't know."

Sherlock nods and I reach out to cup his jaw in my hand. He leans into my touch, skin chilled with almost-spring air and his breath is hot as it rushes over my hand when he sighs.

"Come sit down," I urge.

He nods into my open hand and lets me lead him to the couch, where he curls onto the cousins with my legs beneath his head.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

When I lay my head onto John's thigh, I can feel his pulse beneath my skull. It vibrates my thoughts.

I put my back to the world and position myself so that my forehead is almost touching his hip. His body radiates heat.

Slowly, as if I would break with too hard of a touch, John laces his fingers through my hair. His fingers knock out the gravel-dust that has collected in me. I feel myself unravel at his touch, as if I'm nothing more than an old pair of mittens coming apart at his hands. Pools and pools of red thread.

His fingers travel South and dig beneath the collar of my shirt, finding the familiar dip in my flesh that rolls partially over my shoulder blade. I tense.

"It's okay."

"I know."

"Of course you do," John says, but it's light and soft, like summer air, and I don't get angry.

He retreats from the mountains and valleys of my bare skin and lets him hand slid down my waist until he rests his palm on my lower back, just above my tailbone.

I unravel further, the last few threads snapping between his fingers. It's in these moments when I don't feel anything at all, but I am not numb. I am euphoric.

"I love you."

The words fall in a pile at the base of John's pelvis, messy and on the verge on uncontrolled.

"I love you, too," he mummers.

I feel his words more than I hear them.

"You know, it's not your fault." He pauses, stretching out the silence. "None of it ever was."

He breathes out these words quickly, as if he's been holding them back for ages; and now that they're out in the open, I wonder if John wants to snatch them back, hide them away. They form a blanket and fall over us both, like a fresh coat of snow.

_Not your fault._

It's the first time that I had ever heard those words. They spark something in me, and fire builds in the base of my stomach, blazing throughout my limbs. My eyes burn. Foolish, I bury my face in John's pants. I try to control my shoulders from shaking and choke back everything that's every happened to me.

He works his fingers through the dips in my spine, and his abdomen vibrates as he makes a humming noise. All my rage drips out of me like someone tipping over a glass of water, and I'm left feeling deflated and rusted; but for the first time, I know I don't have to do this alone.

John's palms lay open and softly like little bits of the sun on my lower back, and I'm hit with the sudden realization that this is how fingers are supposed to lie.


End file.
